Page 34 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘He’s all right with Magnus.’

The ducks paddled off, the water smoothing back to stillness.

Sammy wrapped her arms around herself, looking out across the lake. It was quiet. Not empty . . . easy. She peeked sideways at him. He was watching the water, not her.

Sammy smiled to herself. This would do.

Back in the kitchen, Sammy found a notepad and jotted down the ingredients for Jean’s special gooey chocolate cake.

The door opened behind her. Valerie came in carrying a basket of pressed tea towels. She set it on the worktop and glanced over Sammy’s shoulder. ‘What you making?’

‘Jean’s gooey chocolate cake. With icing and chocolate curls.’

‘I like a good cake. Can I have the recipe?’

The question caught Sammy by surprise. ‘Of course.’ Perhaps she’d misjudged Valerie after all.

Valerie picked up the tea towels, tucking them into a drawer. ‘Better not use the Aga. Aga baking has a habit of exposing weaknesses in a cook.’

Sammy folded the list and slipped it into her pocket. She was still going to make the cake.

The next morning, being a Thursday, meant no Valerie. No scope for sabotage. Not even the accidental kind.

After breakfast, Sammy baked that gooey chocolate cake. In the Aga.

Magnus ate a slice with his morning tea, using a cake fork rather than his fingers. ‘Adequate,’ he said, setting the fork on the empty plate. ‘Now, let’s test your knife skills.’

Magnus set Sammy up at the kitchen counter with a row of vegetables laid out in front of her. Recognisable ones. Mostly. Nate had done the selecting. Carrots, a parsnip, one of those kohlrabi things, an equally peculiar cream coloured vegetable the size of a tennis ball that Magnus referred to as celeriac.

‘We begin with consistency,’ Magnus said.

Sammy adjusted her grip on the knife. ‘Like this?’ she asked.

‘No. Like this,’ Magnus said, repositioning her fingers. ‘Control. Not speed.’

‘Right.’

She tried again. Slice – even – another. Slightly less even. A soft clearing of his throat.

Sammy corrected herself, slower this time. The next few slices fell into a rhythm. ‘Better?’

‘Indeed,’ Magnus said.

Sammy noted the tone. That’s what counted, not the word itself; she was recognising the differences. That ‘indeed’ had not been praise. But not a problem either. Progress.

‘You’re learning,’ he added.

That was . . . close to encouragement. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘Sorry, I mean . . .’

‘Stop apologising.’ The words were sharp, but not unkind.

Sammy froze, then shook herself loose.

‘Succeeding in this role is not a matter of pleasing others,’ Magnus continued. ‘It is a matter of meeting the required standard.’ He gestured to the wooden chopping board. ‘This either meets it, or it does not. Your feelings on the matter are irrelevant.’

Sammy checked her slices. Not perfect. But not terrible. ‘So . . . decent is enough?’

She tried another row. This time most were even. Magnus watched. ‘Indeed.’